


fear is(n't) a choice

by ivanattempts



Category: After Earth, The LEGO Movie (2014)
Genre: Also throwing a mental illness cw on here., Anxiety Attacks, Future Coppernauts., Has the potential to get pretty damn long tbh., Heavily implied Bad Business., Here there be aliens., Humanized Legos., M/M, Rated M for future chapters., Violence, Warnings prone to change as the fic goes on.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1685426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivanattempts/pseuds/ivanattempts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fear is not real. The only place that fear can exist is in our thoughts of the future. It is a product of our imagination, causing us to fear things that do not at present, and may not ever exist. That is near insanity. Do not misunderstand me; Danger is very real -- but fear is a choice. We are all telling ourselves a story, and that day...mine changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. "It is sweet and fitting to die for your country."

Being a cadet was an honor; family members beamed with pride over their sons and daughters, their young recruits, with their straight backs and solemn expressions; from his place in line, he can see his own folks -- Ma, teary-eyed, but smiling, and Pa, chin up, arm around her waist, waving to him with one hand. There’s a burn in his eyes, an upwelling of emotion that makes his throat thick; he doesn’t move, simply quietly clears his throat, and blinks the moisture away. The clear lenses he’s been allowed to wear for the ceremony won’t hide tears if they begin to fall, so he stops them before they start.

Emotions cannot be allowed to rule; this is a lesson they all are well-versed in before every they make it to this stage. They impede judgement, and in battle, they can get you, and everyone around you, killed. They won’t be leaving home for some time yet -- this ceremony is an induction, not a goodbye, but it’s leading up to one, and they all know that. Once they finish training, they’ll be put up for consideration, and if they’ve proven themselves, they will be bumped up to the rank of Ranger, and then...then the goodbyes will come.

But it’s an _honor_. That’s what they’re told, that’s what the speech being rattled off in a monotone at the podium tries to impress upon them, as if repeating the lesson again and again will cement it in their memories, rather than having the effect of losing all meaning. Words, when used too frequently, break down, become little more than strange sounds, incomprehensible -- a drone in the background as he turns his head almost imperceptibly to scan the others in line. Hardly more than children, some sway in place, rocking back and forth on their heels -- some fidget with their new uniforms. Some tremble with the effort of maintaining still, cancelling out their own endeavors. They bite lips and pick at nails, steady themselves with deep breaths. Nervous tics that show them for what they are -- amateurs. Fresh meat. Ursa fodder.

They are not the picture of warriors-to-be. They are knock-kneed infants, just learning to crawl in a world that demands they run. They’re not ready for for battle, green-horned, wet behind the ears, snot-nosed brats, still snivelling and crying for mother.

Whatever the terms used to describe them, they fall short -- but what they _are_ is not nearly so important as what they are capable of becoming. The _potential_ in all of them; that is why they’re here, that is why there are standing on this stage, that is why he stands in this line and holds his chin high, and allows his lips to turn up in the faintest hint of a smile as his eyes fall once more on the proud faces of his parents. It’s such a small thing, that sight; but it’s something worth fighting for, and he will hold this image close. If all else fails, if he falls to his knees and feels that he can never get to his feet again he will try to recall this moment, and maybe some of the boyishness he retains, in that manner, won’t come to be a detriment to him.

He is not a fighter. None of them are, not yet.

But they will be. They must be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's good, there's bad, and there's Business.

“Are you scared?”

The voice above him is almost singing, the question mild, conversational; one might think they were simply speaking over coffee. They’re not, and as if to draw attention to this point, a boot is tucked under his chin, forcing him to look up from his kneeling position in the floor.

“C’mon, Danny boy. Can’t you even keep your head up?”

It’s more painful than he’s willing to admit, and the muscles in his neck strain with the effort of tilting his head back far enough to keep it up off the smooth leather of the other’s shoe. He’s huddled on the ground, back curved to keep him slightly hunched over his own thighs, and his face had been rather low to the ground. Now he feels like a limb from a tree -- supple, but too dry for this far of a bend, ready to snap.

The clucking of a tongue above him, from a mouth just out of sight, frustrates him. He wants to see the other cadet’s face, wants to prove to him that he’s not as weak as the other believes him to be. Wants to look him in the eye, and tell him he’s not afraid.

Except, as the other bends at the waist to look him full in the face, he finds he can’t do it, because he _is_ afraid -- he’s frightened, in this moment, with rope chafing at his wrists, with the taste of copper on his tongue, with his nose broken, forcing him to breathe through his mouth, and after a brief moment, he drops his head, averting his gaze.

“Aww. What sort of reaction is that? Chin up, champ.”

There’s that boot again, more insistent this time; his teeth clack as his head is shoved up once more. He wants to correct him on the earlier use of his name -- _Daniel_ , his name is _Daniel_ , not ‘Dan’, not ‘Danny’. Just _Daniel_. And he’s not his _champ_. He’s not his anything, and this supposed _training_ is wearing thin. When he looks up this time, his glasses are low on his nose; one of these days, they’ll force him to be rid of them. Contacts or correctional surgery -- vision problems will eliminate him from advancing in the Ranger program. It’s a good thing his vision was never impaired to begin with; the lenses are just glass, worn for the sake of something to fidget with when he needs to do something his hands; he’s always been a bit of an anxious boy.

Business, they call this cadet -- because he’s nothing but. Whether it has any grounding in his real name or not, he doesn’t know; nicknames abound among their group. There’s Business, and Kitty, there’s Blue, Beard, and that one girl who kept giving herself nicknames -- he thinks she’s up to around six different ones at this point -- and Emmet, who everyone seems to have affectionately taken to calling Special. Truth is, none of them are very fond of Business; he’s a bully, plain and simple, but Daniel tries to give everyone a chance.

This, he recognizes, was a mistake in this case.

It’s alright, though. He can get through this; tolerance, his Ma and Pa had taught him. Patience, tolerance, how to endure, how to forgive. They had not, however, taught him coping methods to deal with getting his face slammed against a wall, and they had not taught him how to react when a finger traces his split lip, how not to flinch when the salt from foreign skin makes the tender area _sting._

He was never taught how to respond to being thrown to the ground, and only knows to curl inward when that boot connects with his ribs, to try and protect those softer, more vulnerable parts of himself. Somewhere in the back of his mind are the protocols he learned in class, the techniques to be used when one finds themselves in a disadvantage in a fight; a hundred scenes from a hundred action packed movies flash as pain erupts in his side, as his breathing becomes labored, excruciating.

“Are you afraid?”

The question is off now, punctuated by each fresh abuse laid on the trembling boy’s body, each blow an attempt to wring from him some sound to prove that he is, indeed, afraid, but no sound comes. He just lies there and takes them, because what else is he supposed to do?

“Answer me!”

Hands are on his suit, lifting him, jerking him roughly up, and his legs are bent all wrong -- something will be dislocated or broken if he’s dropped like this. His head lolls to one side, and his glasses are slipping down the bridge of his broken nose; his vision is blurry, and he’d laugh at that, if he could -- instead, he only manages a weird, red smile that makes Business cringe, and shove him roughly away from himself, as if afraid of getting blood on his own outfit.

The crack of his skull against the stone is so loud he imagines Business must hear it, and he only has one thought -- it doesn’t matter if he’s afraid or not. Fear won’t be what kills him; alien creatures will never have a chance, because if anything ends his life prematurely, it will be Business, and that...that isn’t fair, that isn’t fair at all, because what has he ever done to deserve this? Not even a proper Ranger yet, but drifting in and out of consciousness, staring at a fluorescent light, and hearing the other cadet’s voice as if through water; an echo, distant.

“Are. You. Afraid?”

“No.”

The answer comes from somewhere past the throbbing mess that is his head, and for a moment he thinks he might have imagined it; but no -- his body is moving, and he doesn’t know where he got the strength to sit up, doesn’t know how he can even see straight anymore, doesn’t know where the words spilling from his mouth are coming from.

“What did you say?”

“I said ‘No.’”

“No what?”

“No, I’m not afraid.”

The older boy pauses in his tracks, shifts, peers at him -- they’re not supposed to have weapons, not right now, but that doesn’t stop the cadet in front of him from producing a pocketknife out of seemingly nowhere. It stops with its tip hovering just in front of his eye -- his lashes brush the metal as he blinks, but he does not flinch away from the quick motion.

“Did you just grow a spine on me, Danny?”

A slight hesitation -- and there’s a curious change of heart occurring, because he knows just moments before, he wasn’t too fond of that name, but _Danny_ doesn’t sound so bad. Short. To the point. Saves a half a second, but time is often of the essence.

“Yes sir, I believe I did.”

There’s a beat, silence lapsing between them, before he sees a smile curve across Business-boy’s lips.

“ _Sir_. Hey now, I kind of like the sound of that.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingers crossed!

“You’re never going to be able to Ghost with him around.”

“I don’t know who you mean, sir.”

“Yeah, see, I think you do. You _know_. The _other_ guy.”

There’s breath on the back of his neck, hot against his skin, and there are hands smoothing along the expanse of his shoulders, but he doesn’t turn to look. _The other guy._ Business has mentioned this supposed _other_ before, but Danny never admits to anything -- certainly doesn’t give any sign of knowing _exactly_ who the other boy means, and doesn’t so much as flinch, now, when he feels the slight stirring of an awareness that is and isn’t his own, as if drawn to the surface at the mention of him. _Daniel._

“He’s too soft. It’s like...hey, did you ever watch those old crime shows? You know, the really bad ones, with all the cheap special effects.”

Cue a noncommittal shrug of the shoulders; he knows what the other is talking about, but he’s not sure where this is going, and isn’t very inclined to give a concrete answer until he knows. If this silence at all bothers Business, the other boy gives no sign of it.

“There used to be this big trend of trying to get criminals to talk; the old Good Cop, Bad Cop routine. You’re like that.”

To be honest, that sounds pretty dumb to him, but he doesn’t get a chance to say as much, because Business is still talking.

“Yeah; you’re the Bad Cop. All tough, full of attitude. No-nonsense, no mercy. You, _you_ might be able to Ghost. But that other half of you? Good Cop? Nah.”

Something like indignation wells up, but it manifests only as a slight downward twitch of his lips. The mirrored lenses that hide the look of disapproval he gives the other are a blessing in this moment, even if they were a gift from the very boy he’s currently determined to remain stoic around. He’s oddly protective of that supposed ‘other half’; the fact of the matter is, he’s come to be very aware of Daniel, and Daniel of him. For now, it’s something of an uneasy truce, but one thing is completely understood and accepted between the two of them -- no one else can know.

Whatever this is, whatever’s happened to him -- to _them_ , it’s a secret, because a clean bill of health, physical _and_ mental is required for him to reach the rank of Ranger. It’s the one thing they properly agree on; that to go home now would be a disgrace, would break their Mummy and Daddy’s hearts, and that’s unacceptable.

Business is quiet now, which sends red flags up just in time for him to feel teeth close on his ear, a vicious bite that has him hissing out a breath between his own teeth in pain. The laugh that rings out at his discomfort is sharp, sudden -- like dishes shattering against a tile floor, and just as jarring.

“You always make sounds like that, but you never do tell me to stop. You really _are_ bad, aren’t you Bad Cop?”

There’s something sickly sweet in his tone, something that coats the tongue and turns the stomach, and the arm slipping around his shoulders is unwelcome, but he stays. For some reason, he stays. A hand moves to his chin, tips his head, fingertips trailing along his jaw.

“I like the glasses. Best money I ever spent. I can’t tell if you’re waiting for me to kiss you, or wanting to bite my tongue off. I love it.”

Funny enough, Danny can’t decide which he’d rather do, but he supposes they’ll find out shortly -- Business moves in, and so does he. There’s no affection in the kiss, no love, not even _lust_ ; it’s just _hungry_ for something, anything that isn’t another grueling mock fight, that isn’t another maddening yoga session, for something that isn’t trying to condition or tame or contain them.

It’s all necessary -- learning to Ghost is likely the only thing capable of saving their lives if they ever come face to face with an Ursa, but sometimes, sometimes they have to break away, sometimes they have to remember what it feels like to be _alive_ , what it is to feel _anything_ , because in the process of emptying himself of fear, he also feels like he’s being stripped of everything else that makes him inherently human. That’s why he allows this -- that’s why the fingers curling in his hair and yanking bring nothing but a breathy snarl that, even now, isn’t a protest, despite the scowl, despite the appearance of one eye as his shades are thrown crooked by the force of his head being jerked to the side.

He’s being dragged to the floor, and he doesn’t know what Business is up to, but he allows it, peering over the rim of his glasses at an all-too smug face; he’s pushed until his face is directly in line with the other boy’s shoe, and his eyes narrow. The bruises left from his last encounter with these boots are still healing up, and he’s far from pleased to be this close to them again.

“Clean them.”

“...sir?”

“Go on. Clean them.”

He can’t. Staring at the leather, he feels his stomach lurch at the thought -- while he, himself, is only mildly put off at the thought, Daniel seems _repulsed_ , and it’s affecting his ability to act. Even once the fingers release his hair he remains there, torn; to not do as Business says will mean more pain, a point he tries to get across to the other, but it doesn’t stop the churning of his innards, doesn’t stop him feeling like he’s about to dirty those fine leather boots, rather than do any sort of cleaning.

“Tsk. What’s the matter? Good Cop taking offense?”

There’s a slight pause, as if he’s waiting for Danny to comment on the matter -- apparently Business doesn’t care _too_ much for an answer, though, because he speeds on.

“I knew it. He’s making you soft. You’re going to have to get rid of him. If you can’t take orders from me, what makes you think you can take orders from a superior officer? Will he listen to them? Or will he keep on interfering? What if an Ursa comes along? What’re you going to do then? Freeze up? Or -- ”

“I’m in control.”

There’s a scoff from somewhere above him, and it drives him to action -- before he even has time to properly consider what he’s about to do, he tastes the leather of the boy’s shoe, tongue swiping across it in one broad stripe. His cheeks are burning, this is humiliating, but he _is_ doing it; and while Daniel is disgusted, he isn’t stopping him. There’s a mild sense of relief at that -- this constant butting of heads has got to stop, because Business has a point; if one of them freezes up in the field, they both die. The Ursa isn’t going to be so considerate as to try and figure out if the one controlling the body is the one letting off the pheromones that allow it to see them; it’s going to tear them limb from limb, and he’ll be a plus one on a tally sheet, he’ll be a name on a board, under _KIA_ , nothing more than a _statistic_.

The boots taste like dirt and polish, which leads him to the mental image of Business at some point taking the time to shine these shoes as if they were something special; he probably treats these shoes better than he treats most people. Certainly better than he treats either Daniel or Danny.

After a few moments, the shoe is moved silently away, a signal that he’s allowed to stop, and he leans up, looking up at the other from his position on the floor, and this is all so similar that his head begins to hurt in preparation for the blow it expects to come.

“Take my advice. Get rid of him, or he’ll get rid of you.”

“I don’t -- “

“Baloney.” It’s a sharp cut-off that has him biting the rest of the sentence off, tongue tucked lightly between his teeth to ensure the lack of any potential betrayal of sound. Business continues, bringing a finger to push the shades slightly down to look him in the eye while he talks, and Danny finds he’s hard-pressed to maintain eye contact, but manages, somehow. “You can lie to me, but you can’t lie to an Ursa. It’ll smell you, and no sunglasses are going to save you from that.”

“Most Rangers never meet an Ursa.”

Business just shakes his head, as if the answer is disappointing somehow, and moves to leave the room. “Better keep your fingers crossed you’re in the category of ‘most’.”

He’s gone, then, and Danny is alone -- or, as alone as he ever is. This thought leads him to look at his hands, and to frown when he does, indeed, find the fingers of his left hand crossed for good luck.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fear is a choice.

_It’s okay to be scared, son._

The words are out of place. They don’t make sense, and it’s an effort not to scoff at them; his father is a Ranger, like he wants to become, so why is he saying something so...so downright, goshdarn _dumb_? The statement is a blatant contradiction of everything they’re taught from the day they’re old enough to comprehend language, which can bring him to only one logical conclusion -- it’s a _lie._

This sentiment has come the day after a drill; he’d frozen up in the trial run, had failed this time around. He wasn’t the only one, but it feels shameful -- his performance should have been flawless; but the event had been so _familiar_ , and for a little while, he’d been just a lad again.

\----------

He had been in his room when the siren had started, a low droning sound that made him think of swarming insects, the type of sound that burrowed into the skin and coiled around the bones. It made people jump to their feet, made them hasten to perform their tasks, made them hurry towards the shelter, and he, he had moved to do the same, gotten to his feet, just a child, then. Except, he’d left something important behind -- a pair of glasses with false lenses to match his father’s reading glasses, a teasing gift from Ma that had turned out far more dear to him than expected. He couldn’t leave them behind -- like the Rangers in their strange, color-changing suits, they had been a type of armor, and somehow wearing them made him feel brave. And wasn’t that what he was supposed to do? Be brave?

He’d been very aware of the sound of feet pounding away in the hall outside, everyone in their apartment block making their way to safer ground, to the one bastion they had during an attack like this; because even young as he had been, he had recognized the eerie silence outside that meant no bombs were falling, and if the Skrel -- and even the thought of the name had made him look around a bit anxiously before picking his glasses up, as if the aliens that sought to drive them to extinction might _hear_ his thoughts of them and somehow be summoned by them -- _if the Skrel_ were not attacking in and of themselves, there was only one other reason for the sirens to blare.

_Ursa_.

The realization itself had been harmless, because the Ursa to him, though always painted as a very real threat, was a distant thing; a creeping shadow in the corner of the room, something snuffling beneath his bed in the wee hours of morning, the scratch at the window that his Ma had always insisted was _just a plant, son, just a twig, go back to sleep dear one._ It was a far-off danger, a fairytale to make sure he ate his vegetables and took his supplements, a nightmarish snatcher of misbehaved children. These misconceptions had occurred at no fault of the adults who tried to explain it -- but he was a child, and their lofty descriptions of _pheromone_ triggers and the scientific explanations of its anatomy had done nothing but give his imagination fuel. It had come to him as a bit of a shock to realize that one was there, in the colony -- the realization that it was not some murky, intangible thing of darkness. It unsettled him, disquieted him, and had him creeping more slowly toward the door of his apartment than was, perhaps, prudent; but the footsteps in the hallway were dying out, and silence reigned beyond, and maybe, just maybe, he was a little _frightened_.

He’d just worked up the nerve to open the door, peering out into hall, eyes sliding along the pristine chrome and white finishes, looking for any sign of the Ursa, or the Rangers, or of...well, anyone that might give him the courage to step out of his apartment. The Rangers for this block, though, would have long since evacuated this area and fallen back -- they’re not in the business of saving _belongings_ , they’re in the business of saving _lives_ , and perhaps they had assumed that he, a Ranger’s son, would have known much better than to fall behind. Oh, how he had wished, in that moment, that that was true of himself.

_Fear is a choice._

That simple phrase had long been a rousing sentiment among the ranks of Rangers; it was heartening to imagine that something once considered instinctual, something considered to be a biological function -- _autonomic nervous system, fight or flight response,_ and the words meant nothing to him, far above his understanding -- might actually be under their control. That something so natural and thoughtless as _fear_ could be suppressed; that their bodies’ natural way of trying to save their lives wouldn’t bring about the end of them. _Fear is a choice._ He, even young as he was, didn’t have to be afraid; he could choose not to be. Everyone could choose not to be.

So why had his heart begun to pound at the sound of _something_ making its way through the hallway? Not violent, not crashing through as he had expected, but _slinking_ , almost reptilian in its eerie silence -- only the click of long, sharp nails against the hard surface just loudly enough to give it away. Its presence had created an odd sense of pressure -- a stirring of the air reminiscent to the heaviness of a storm about to break, clinging to him, weighing him down, and he had remained in the doorway, wide-eyed, frozen, waiting breathlessly for his first glimpse of the creature. Rangers trained their whole lives to fight Ursa, and a lot of them still died -- despite the technical descriptions of them he had received, his mind had crafted an altogether different beast, with gaping jaws and grasping claws, with slick scales and gnashing teeth, with acid dripping from its mouth.

If _that_ creature had been the one to come slinking down the hallway, he might have been able to very easily close the door and go back to his room -- to hide and wait for a Ranger to find him. Instead, the reality had been so different he’d been shocked, held into place by something he could only later deem as naive, childish curiosity; the Ursa’s strange, fleshy body had repulsed him, the putrid beige color of something once eaten that hadn’t stayed down. No eyes, and six spindly legs, splayed out, clicking rhythmically as it turned its head this way and that, still far enough away that he had to lean out to see it -- which, in retrospect, hadn’t been the brightest of ideas he’d ever had. Four apartments down the hall it had stopped, as if something had disturbed it, and it had lifted its head up, two feet off the ground, long tail poised and ready to strike, like a scorpion’s; a hodgepodge of nightmares, it had cocked its head as if listening, despite Daniel knowing very well that it could not hear his heavy, quick breaths.

The Ursa began to _scream_. He had been warned about any number of deadly aspects of the beasts, had been told of how quickly they moved, had been warned of their teeth and their claws and their tail, had been warned of their ability to pick up on _fear_ , but no one had thought to warn him of the unearthly wailing it let out; the screeching was like wind caught between trees, looking for an escape, howling through the branches. The sheer inhumanity of the sound had him frozen in place -- his brain had shut down, instincts freezing him as if that might, somehow, save him, as if this sightless creature might not see him if he only stayed _still_.

This tactic, of course, had not worked; the moment his brain locked down, the moment his heart began to pound so hard in his ears that he could hardly hear the screaming for it, the sound trickled into silence, and the Ursa was on the move again, only this time, it did not bother battering at and inspecting the doors of the other apartments. It had spotted him. This knowledge had kicked his brain back into gear, and he had slammed the door closed, as if that might shut the horror out. He had run to his room, panting, terrified, glasses askew, one side of the frames tilted down from where they had fallen from his ear in his mad dash to his bedroom. One hand had moved to adjust them, the other had gone to his mouth -- he had felt lightheaded, and the sound of a heavy body throwing itself at the door had him scrambling for the covers, shaking underneath them. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to _die_.

“Daniel!”

The familiar voice that rang from the doorway of the apartment had had a strangled sob of relief escaping him, because that was his Pa, and as long as his Pa was there, everything would be okay. Pa was a Ranger -- he could handle anything. Weren’t they trained to take on the Ursa? Footsteps; Pa found him even as the Ursa took note of the other presence, and it had made him wonder, at the time, why it had located his Pa more quickly than it had him. He’d decided, then, that if they survived this, he would ask him.

A secondary wave of relief had washed over him as Pa had brought out his cutlass -- a strong weapon all Rangers carried, made up of hundreds of lightweight metal fibers that could form up to sixteen weapon configurations, controlled by rapid finger inputs. They’re an elegant tool, both for fighting and self-defense, and at the time, he had thought carrying one made people all but invincible. That idea had been dashed the moment he’d seen the Ursa charge at his father, and throw him bodily against the wall -- he’d stared in horror as the thing had prepared to strike, and his Pa had rolled out of the way, had yelled into the device on his forearm for backup. All Daniel had been able to think, at the time, was that they’d never make it in tim.

At the time, he’d had no idea of what had given him the courage to stand, to let his blanket slide to the floor -- he had watched almost as an outsider might as his body was moved across the floor to where his own toy cutlass lay; useless as a weapon, it didn’t even work as a standard cadet version, with their three basic weapon configurations. His own had been little more than a baton that he could screw plastic pieces onto the end of to give a semblance of those tools used by the Rangers -- but he had picked it up as if it had contained all twenty-two configurations that the Prime Commander’s cutlass boasted, and had, somewhat foolishly, started shouting at the creature, which hadn’t seemed to hear him. In a moment of impulsiveness, and more than a little poor judgement, he had thrown the thing at the Ursa, which had drawn it up short from where it was lashing its tail at his father again and again in an attempt to pin him down.

The Ursa had turned towards him, and for a brief moment, time had seemed to stand still as it regarded him, and he drew himself up, back straight as he stood in front of it -- a small, frail figure looking up at a monster that could swallow him whole. It had had time to take two steps towards him before Rangers had flooded their apartment; one had circled around and snatched him up in their arms, and the spell was broken. Whatever anomaly in his brain had allowed him to move against the Ursa had dissipated, and he had clung to the Ranger, tears blurring his vision as they ran from the scene, his neck stretched in hopes of catching a glimpse of his father among the chaos they left behind.

Daniel now wonders if the young boy that had stood up to the Ursa had really been _him_ at all, or if it had been some early appearance of Danny; the other gives the equivalent of a mental shrug at the consideration. Their memories flow so freely back and forth, it’s hard to recall which belongs to who. Mostly, it doesn’t matter -- but with the recollection of Business’s taunt of his inability to Ghost, Daniel would like to know if it really had been him that had, if even for an instant, fooled the creature.

_It’s okay to be scared, son,_ his Pa says, but Daniel can’t accept that -- the last time fear froze him up in such a manner, the kindly, loving man now clapping him on the shoulder and pulling him into a hug had nearly died. That sort of negligence towards their teachings gets people killed, and no matter what the other says to try and make him feel better about this setback, he knows better.

The next day, he submits his name for re-evaluation.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indulgence.

Landing day is the largest -- and indeed, really the _only_ \-- celebration that they have. It’s a day of indulgences, of frivolity, as celebrations should be. He should be enjoying himself, like anyone and everyone else, but he stands back, watches the events as a bystander, an outsider. Every once in a while he sees Ma or Pa glance over, make a comment, but they don’t interrupt his solitude, and he’s grateful for it, because right now, he’s only got eyes for one person.

Business is standing with the other graduates -- he’s too good for the lower classman now, and Danny wonders, somewhat idly, how he passed. But really, he thinks he knows. He’s not going to say outright that money or status has anything to do with the choice, but he also happens to know that Business shrieked in the fear section of the test; but there he stands, cutlass strapped to his back, chatting up one of the new Rangers. Somehow, it kind of sucks a bit of the fun out of the festivities, and he makes his way through the crowd to grab a drink. Today, everyone’s allowed alcohol, and he takes advantage of this.

The drinks he’s told used to exist on Earth were apparently similar to this, but harsher. The liquid burns as it goes down, but the aftertaste is fruity, pleasant. It’s a good way to wet his throat, and Daniel agrees, and before they know it the first glass is gone, and the second is going down. It’s warm in his belly, and he turns, inclined to survey the party once more. He eventually moves to mingle -- congratulates a few of his former classmates on passing, gives a smile and _a maybe next time, buddy_ to the cadets like him, who’ll be re-taking the course a week from today. It’s okay -- he wasn’t ready last time. He’d rather re-take the course and be prepared, than get out in the field and die because he wasn’t.

The arms around his waist have him tensing, and he turns his head only to find lips at his ear, whispering just above the music.

”Looking for me, Danny boy?”

”No sir.”

Teeth. His ear’s barely healed from its last encounter, but he endures the pain with little more than a hiss. Alright, so that’s the wrong answer. He understands. There’s a hand smoothing up along the flat plane of his stomach, and he ignores the way it forces his casual clothes to ride up -- just a cadet, he’s not required to wear dress uniforms to the celebration, so he hadn’t.

”I don’t like your street clothes.” 

”Y’don’t have to.”

His smart mouth is going to get him in trouble; Business seems to think the same and stops his motions, which is all for the better, seeing as how they’re in the middle of the crowd. The last thing Danny needs is for Ma or Pa to see this.

”That’s not any way to talk to a superior, cadet.”

Danny considers telling him that it’s exactly the way to talk to a superior, because his style of dress on Landing Day is none of his concern; that any superior chastising him today needs to get the stick out of his ass and have a few drinks. This reminds him of his own drink, which he brings to his mouth -- or tries to. His hand is stopped by fingers wrapped around his wrist, tugging, until Danny is forced to turn, watching his hand being directed, guided until his cup touches Business’s lips. The knot in his throat bobs; one, two, three gulps, and the cup is empty, and being discarded in a nearby bin.

There’s no fight in him as he’s led through the throngs of people -- he trails slightly behind, grimacing just slightly. He doesn’t know where they’re going, and he has a feeling it will do him absolutely no good to ask, so he doesn’t waste his breath. The only conflict comes when there’s a hand placed on his shoulder, and for a moment he’s caught in a strange game of tug-of-war -- the unyielding hand holding him back, the iron grip trying to pull him forward.

The sudden resistance makes Business stop, turning, annoyed -- Danny takes the time to turn, too, brows creased; Danny brings his hand up in a swift salute. Business doesn’t move, and most certainly doesn’t release Danny’s wrist to extend the courtesy to the other Ranger. He supposes he doesn’t have to, what with them being the same rank now.

For a moment, the tense silence between the three of them is almost enough to drown out the music; it’s Beard, sporting some silver trinkets in the braids of the feature they’d been nicknamed after.

”Everything alright here?”

Danny notes that they’re not looking at Business -- just at him, and there’s something concerned on the other’s face. They’d never been particularly close, but the worry warms him. He hesitates, and the fingers around his wrist tighten imperceptibly. The delicate bones grind, and it’s an effort not to wince.

Instead of answering, he nods; their dark skin falls in stark contrast to the white loops in their ears, and he finds himself appreciative of that. His eyes wander back to theirs, and there’s a look there that he doesn’t quite understand -- or doesn’t want to. Either way, he simply quietly excuses himself, ducking his shoulder to release it from the other’s grip. They let go, and Danny smiles to them; really, he doesn’t want to make this any harder on himself than he has to.

Five minutes later find him with bricks digging into the bare expanse of his back, and there’s a hand down his pants, wrapped around his cock and making him pant. His sunglasses have gone askew, and even he’s not sure which section of his addled brain the curses are coming from; Daniel, or Danny, both, neither, it doesn’t matter. He, they, are clinging to Business, head tipped back, and there’s a bruise being sucked into the junction of throat and shoulder. It’s dimmer here, the warm glow of the lights off to his left somewhere, the music filtering in under the low whines escaping him.

His head turns, and there’s an entire crowd out there; his eyes seek out someone, anyone to watch to keep his mind off the hot, wet mouth traveling along his clavicles, to ignore the tongue dipping into the hollow between them. His eyes land on a few prospective candidates -- and then they land on Blue. It’s funny, because he’s never even really talked to the kid, but seeing him now in a loose shirt, excitedly chattering with someone, well. He’s as good as anyone else.

It’s easy to imagine his cheeks are flushed -- from this distance, they appear to be under the lights. They dance across his skin as he shifts, and he looks like he might be trying to dance; Danny doesn’t know, is only aware of the curve of his spine as he arches, stands on his toes. Stretching, not dancing, and for a brief moment, his expression twists -- it looks like agony, it looks like ecstasy, and with a hand still stroking him, he can imagine that he’s the one causing that look.

If he has qualms fantasizing about a stranger, he’ll deal with those later; that he doesn’t even know Blue’s real name doesn’t bug him, at least, because to be honest, he doesn’t know Business’s either. And as if the thought of his name had alerted him to the fact that he wasn’t Danny’s main focus anymore, the hand in his pants is yanked free, making him groan in frustration; it takes his face, turns it, and now there’s no denying whose body is pressing closer to his, caging him in.

Business looks perfectly composed, if a bit angry for his inattentiveness. That’s alright, though, because he recognizes that look -- and as often happens with Business, Danny soons finds himself on his knees, fingers curled in his hair, and this time, he gets the feeling he’s not going to be let up just for licking the man’s _boots_.

His mouth is open, cloth pressed against his teeth, tongue sliding over the smooth surface of the smart fibers, the suit long since gone dark from their rapid movements. The trousers are pushed down, and Danny is encouraged to set to work -- he’s never done this before, and so his first attempts are clumsy; his lips are wet, glistening, and he hears a pleased hum above him as he’s tugged forward. It’s not that Business is overly large, but the obstruction is sudden and he gags, hands coming up to grasp at the other boy’s hips, fingers digging in; the fingers in his hair twist as he tries to pull away, and there’s a short, breathless laugh before he’s allowed back to breathe.

Danny takes his time, then; experimenting between sliding his tongue along the sensitive skin and scraping his teeth, sucking and simply bobbing his head, tightening his lips. All of his actions elicit different reactions from the other now leaning against the wall, and he once again tries to imagine it’s someone else; different fingers in his hair, a different taste on his tongue, sweeter sighs above him.

Business’s orgasm catches him by surprise -- he’s yanked forward once more, and he coughs as warmth floods his mouth; it’s bitter, and when Business lets him go he drops to all fours and spits, wiping at his mouth and glaring up at the other man, cheeks flushed. Business just laughs, fixes his pants.

”You should work on that, Danny boy. Could use a bit of practice.”

”Piss off.”

It’s muttered, but loud enough to earn him a kick in the ribs, before Business bails, leaving him to clean himself up. At long length he stops staring at the small mess in front of him, considers getting himself off, and quickly dismisses the idea with disgust, tucking himself properly back into his own trousers and standing up.

Not long after, he makes his way back to the party; gets himself a fresh drink and turns his eyes to the crowd. Only one person meets his eyes -- Blue, through a break in the crowd, and he smiles an absent sort of smile, a sort of vague recognition on his face.

Danny doesn’t smile back.

**Author's Note:**

> Lego Movie/After Earth crossover AU. Lord help me.
> 
> Comments, questions, kudos, etc., always welcome and appreciated. x


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